


if you can't stop shaking, lean back

by blithelybonny



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bisexuality, Explicit Sexual Content, Internalized Biphobia, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M, confused feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 21:04:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11699874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithelybonny/pseuds/blithelybonny
Summary: During a threesome with his wife and his best friend, Ron examines his sexuality.





	if you can't stop shaking, lean back

**Author's Note:**

> The Harry Potter universe belongs to J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic/Warner Brothers. I am not making any profit off this work of fanfiction.
> 
> Title is a lyric from Panic at the Disco's Hallelujah (which is a fucking perfect song.)
> 
> Please mind the tags and also please let me know if it should be tagged further.
> 
> Also with many thanks to gracerene for the beta work! <3

When Ron allows himself to glance across the space between them at the small furrow between Harry’s brows, at the way his mouth is slack with pleasure, he thinks suddenly that he wants to gather Harry closer and kiss him. He wants to get a hand on the back of Harry’s head—enough to cradle, enough to guide—and bring their faces close enough that every sharp exhalation that passes from Harry’s lips becomes the only air Ron can breathe himself.

But it’s a mad thought: it must be because of the intimacy of this; it must be because he’s seen Harry’s face all pulled up in arousal and need before—a bloke doesn’t get through over ten years of living with another bloke without walking in on him having a wank at least once or twice—but never this close, never this personal, never when, in some small way maybe, he’s the cause of it.

Harry’s head tips back and he must tighten his grip in Hermione's hair a bit too much because she grunts and lets his cock slip from her mouth. “Take care, Harry,” she manages, her voice hoarse and shaky because Ron’s still thrusting into her at a steady tick.

“Sorry– sorry,” he stammers. His chest heaves and he puts a hand back gently. Too gently—Hermione likes a bit of pull.

“Thread, but don’t tug,” Ron murmurs. He lifts a hand from Hermione’s hip to guide Harry’s into place, but pauses, lets it hover in the air instead because of where he thinks he might actually want to put it.

Harry’s eyes snap to his, they flash with something, and Ron drops his head back down to stare at the place where he and Hermione join. He watches himself slide in and out of her for a long beat, long enough that he no longer feels the prickle of Harry’s gaze on him.

When they’d first talked about trying something like this, it had largely been a joke, or so Ron had thought. He and Hermione had been married for two years, and the three of them were out mourning the end of Harry’s relationship with Ginny. (Ron had been at least a little ashamed with himself for being pleased that it hadn’t worked out—not because he didn’t love them both, but because there would likely always be some stupid, cavemanish part of him that didn’t want to see his younger sister with anyone.)

“I don’t suppose I’ll ever really love anyone the way that I love the two of you,” Harry had said.

“S’too bad you can’t just be with us then,” Ron had slurred, with a raise of his pint glass in commiseration.

“And why couldn’t he?” Hermione had put in, giggling.

“No reason why not!” Ron had laughed.

“Perfect!” Harry had replied. “We’ll just all be together forever!”

But now he and Hermione have been married for three years and Harry has been single for fifteen days after a break up with Andrew Kirke, and they're at Ron and Hermione’s home mourning a relationship that never really stood a chance, did it?

“Hermione, I– I’m c-close.” Harry lets out a strangled moan that Ron feels in his chest, and then he pulls back enough that his cock slips from Hermione’s mouth again. “I want to– can– can I p-please,” he tries again, holding himself at the head, as if to try and stop it.

Ron can fucking see the way his hand is shaking with the effort of holding off stroking himself further. “Fuck,” he whispers, begs, “let him, Hermione, please. Let him, let him, let him.” He stills his thrusts with effort as well, ready to pull out, ready to let Harry take his place if only she’d say the word.

Instead, she levers herself up and sits back on Ron’s cock, pulling him in deep with a filthy sound. She reaches up and back and wraps an arm around to grip Ron’s shoulder, keeping him in place. “Do you want to fuck me, Harry? Is that what you’d like?” she asks, when she uses her free hand to—bloody fucking _hell_ —guide Harry forward so that their lips are just inches apart.

Ron can’t move, can’t seem to catch his breath properly, as Harry lets go his cock and puts that hand instead on Hermione’s breast, lets his thumb flick against her nipple, making it glisten with Harry’s pre-come. “No, I– I want to, er, I want– I want–” Harry tries and tries, but can’t manage to say whatever it is he wants to say.

“It’s okay,” Hermione urges him, guides him even closer somehow, until all three of them are pressed so tight together they may as well be a single person. “Touch me, Harry,” she asks—barely a sound, barely a breath against Harry’s lips—“Please touch me.”

Harry whimpers and presses his forehead against hers. He skims his occupied hand down between his and Hermione’s bodies and rubs her clit; Ron can’t really see because they are too close together, but Merlin he can _feel—_

—he’s barely even thrusting, he can’t, it’s too much. Instead, he’s rocking gently, they all are, they’re rocking together, and Ron can feel the graze of Harry’s fingertips against the place where Ron is joined with Hermione, and fuck, _fuck_ it’s so much, it’s almost too much, Ron didn’t know it could be like this, he didn’t know that sex could be this _much_.

Hermione shifts suddenly between them, spreading her knees just a bit more so that Ron is forced to adjust as well, and he’s fucking her deeper now, which he knows she loves, but he can also feel the way that Harry’s fucking his hips forward too, fucking up against Hermione’s cunt, letting his cock do the work his hand had been doing. “Fuck, yes, yes!” Hermione cries out as she comes and drops her head forward onto Harry’s shoulder. The hand that Harry had on Hermione’s hip slips forward when she moves and grips Ron’s instead.

Surprised, Harry’s eyes flicker open and meet Ron’s; they’re dusky-green with desire, different from the way Hermione’s darken when she wants it, but no less arousing, and Ron’s caught. He wants, fuck, there it is again, he wants to kiss Harry. He wants to capture Harry’s lips and suck on his tongue and make him come. He wants—he wants everything.

So Ron inches his face forward and Harry lets out a desperate sound that seems to echo throughout Ron’s entire body. He stretches his hand out and wraps it around the back of Harry’s head just as he’d wanted to before, and he pulls Harry a little closer, but—

“Come for us, Harry,” Hermione says and pushes on his chest so that she can start to have him off with her hand. She sounds blissed out and exhausted, and Ron loves her so, so incredibly much. He loves her and that must be why he’d wanted this—she’d have thought it hot, it would have turned her on, and that’s all Ron’s ever wanted, isn’t it?

“Fffuuuck,” he groans, pulling back so that he can concentrate more fully on fucking his wife as she valiantly clenches against his cock with each thrust in. “Merlin, you feel so bloody good, love.”

It doesn’t take all that long after all that—Harry’s more vocal the closer he gets, with Hermione working him expertly, whining high and tight in the back of his throat, thrusting up into the circle of her fist, and asking her over and over, “Please, please, can I, can I, please, can I?”

Hermione is still hot and tight and wet around him, and Ron’s chasing his own release, even as he wants also to cry out, _Yes, fuck, fuck, please, come on, come on Harry, come for us, please_.

“Come for us, Harry, please. You can, you can come whenever you want to, love,” Hermione urges him.

Ron’s close—fuck, he’s so _close_ —

“Come on, Harry,” he chokes out, “come for us!”

Harry stills for a second, swallows against a dry mouth and squeezes Ron’s hip, before he lets out a curse and comes, jerking his hips forward into Hermione’s hand.

Ron can’t look away, can’t look at anything other than the way all the tension sags out of Harry’s body as Hermione strokes him through the aftershocks. He comes without warning, hard and fast, to the feel of Harry’s hand stroking the skin at his hip and the soft _thank you_ that Harry whispers into the charged air between them.

Later, when it’s so late that it might actually be early the next day, Ron’s sitting at his kitchen table, a mug of tea passing back and forth between his hands, letting the scrape of ceramic against wood drown out the things he doesn’t want to think about when Hermione pads into the kitchen and sits down at his other side.

“Did we make a mistake?” she asks, hushed, not wanting to disturb the room.

“No,” Ron answers immediately. Because it wasn’t a mistake. It could never be a mistake, not amongst the three of them, not after everything they’d been through together.

She stills the mug and gathers it into her hands. “Then why aren’t you in bed with us?”

He winces. He can’t help his wince, no matter how ashamed of it he might be. But they had been all curled up together, Hermione in the middle, and Harry– Harry with his eyes wide and searching all over Ron’s face, a question there that Ron didn’t think he could answer.

“Ron,” she says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s not like Ron has a problem with people who aren’t straight, of course. Harry’s his best friend in the entire world and he’s bisexual. Charlie, Ron knows, doesn’t fuck anybody at all. And he went on a couple dates with Morag MacDougal a few years ago when he and Hermione had taken a break, and Morag didn’t really identify as a bird or a bloke and said they were attracted to all different types of people which, well, Ron didn’t exactly know where that left them, but they certainly weren’t straight either.

He doesn’t have a problem at all—it’s just that it’s not him. It’s not.

But he’d wanted—

_It’s not._

“Ron,” Hermione says again, softer this time, “I’m here if you want to talk about it. Whenever you want to talk about it.”

He looks up from the tabletop and meets her gaze. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he assures her. “But thanks.”

She just looks at him for a long time, and he’s sure that it’s all over his face, but then she sighs and gets up. “All right, love. I’m going back to bed,” she says, gently ruffling his hair on her way past him.

“I’ll be up in a minute,” Ron lies.


End file.
